a memorial and a name

Remembering . . .

. . . aching at the sight of a mezuzah made out of a bullet shell, from a Polish ghetto, an insistent reminder of the faithfulness of God in a horrific period.

. . . weeping over the story of a grandfather, standing next to his sixteen year-old grandson on the brink of a death pit, hearing the order-- "Fire!"-- from behind him, and beginning the Shema.  The boy only had time to recite, "Shema, Yisrael" before the men fell . . . he alone was untouched by the bullets (though he tumbled into the pit with them) and thus lived to tell the story.

. . . avoiding reading about the Nazis at all.  "May their sins always remain before the LORD, that He may cut off the memory of them from the Earth." (Psalm 109:15)

. . . getting chills down my spine and tears in my eyes about a rabbi, defying his Nazi captors--
"[Rebbe Moshe] Friedman addressed himself to the Germans as he was being led naked into the gas chamber, clinging to his clothing: '"You, cruel murderers, human scum, do not think that you will succeed in destroying the Jewish people.  The Jewish people will live forever and will not vanish from the stage of history . . ." He spoke with great emotion and great strength.  Then, when he had finished, he put on his hat and in great excitement called out "Shema Yisrael," and all the Jews faithfully responded with him "Shema Yisrael" out of a sense of profound faith which had surrounded them all in the last moments of their lives.'"


Apparently, the Shema is the one prayer that will always, always make me cry.  I think it's because it begins, "Hear, Israel,"  but I know that they are destined-- at least for now-- to be a people "ever hearing, but never understanding; ever seeing, but never perceiving."  And this is the tragedy beyond all others . . . even the horrors of the Holocaust.

give it a try, it'll be all right

Tonight I danced in the middle of a road.  I was doing a round with A. from Brasil, who works as a night guard, and he found out that I don't know how to dance, so he offered to teach me.  I was drinking tea, and held my cup up, trying to use it as an excuse . . . but he took it from me and tossed it to the side of the road, then took my hand, put his hand on my back, and said, "Okay-- two steps."

I think I need more people to do that to me-- take my excuses, toss them aside, take my hand, and say "Come on.  Let's dance."

I'll be missing you

When I first came here, I was scared, unsure, nervous, shy.
You took me under your wings, taught me how to do my job, gave me the best advice for navigating Jerusalem, invited me along, shared sunsets with me, opened your arms and hearts to me.  You blessed me in ways you cannot even begin to imagine.

Now it has become my turn to bless you.

Kneeling before you, one hand on each of you; praying praying praying with our brothers and sisters that the beauty of what you've learned and who you've become will continue to be a part of your futures, no matter where you go.

Hearing and agreeing with all the beautiful things people have to say about you as they bid you goodbye.

Sitting with you, just talking and laughing.

Walking our favorite routes, one last time.

Kneeling beside you, one hand on your knee, one hand on your back; your hands held by a dear brother and sister, the others crowding as close as they can, hands on your shoulders, back, knees, hovering over your hair; fighting back my own tearful nausea; trying my hardest to absorb some of the grief I can feel coming from you with each wave of sobbing tears, to pour into you the love I have for you.

Watching a dear brother give you one last beautiful gift of service, as he's been doing for the past month-- carrying your suitcase to the waiting sheirut and engaging the driver in conversation to buy you a few last moments to say goodbye.

Giving one last hug and kiss as you are rushed into the sheirut.

Running running running, and waving after your vehicle as it takes you away from me.

Standing in your mostly-empty room, wishing you were here with me . . .

I hope you know, dear ones, how much I love you.
And I hope you realize how very much you will be missed . . .

I know we'll meet again
'Cause that's how the Story ends
It's so hard to say
Goodbye

the only evidence against us

"There is no holiness without love," said A., the Revive Israel teacher.  "Holiness is to choose to love . . . even when everything is against you . . . suffering doesn't make it holiness; the love makes it holiness.  We're not focusing on suffering; we're focusing on loving Yeshua.  Sometimes there is suffering; sometimes there are good times.  But our focus is loving Yeshua."
There is no fear in love.

Fear is loud and selfish and noisy and arrogant and rude and insane.  It yells and screams and bullies and strikes out at others, because it knows itself to be powerless.  Love, on the other hand, is patient, kind, unenvious, humble, courteous, concerned for others, difficult to anger, forgiving, truth-loving, protective, trusting, hopeful, tenacious.  Love can afford to be gentle and quiet and slow, because it knows itself to be not only in the right, but to be the right.

Jon Acuff touches this subject brilliantly in his amazing profound hilarious book.  And because I love the way he words things, I'm going to quote him here.
" . . . love can feel like it's taking too long.  Love is messy and slow.  It unravels at God's speed, not ours.  Shame is faster.  Fear is faster."

It's true.  I want to be holy right this instant.  I want to be godly and pure and worthy right now.  Scaring myself with rules and consequences and legalism is easier than learning to follow Jesus because, well, I love Him.
And love is hard.  Love is all grey and fuzzy, and I want black and white clarity.

The question I've been asking myself lately, in so many areas, is where is the line?  The conclusion I've been coming to is maybe there isn't actually a line.  Or, rather, maybe the "line" is love.

I think that living by fear is like walking in a deep river, water swirling around my neck, my hands clutching a guide rope.  I'm unable to let go, unable to unclench my hands from the rope, unable to go anywhere but where the rope leads.
Living by love . . . is learning to swim.  Having the river-- and all other bodies of water-- be suddenly and completely opened to me.  Because, living by love, I will know . . .
I am safe.

the "peace" of Jerusalem

Maybe you've heard about the recent missile strikes in Israel and Jordan.  More than likely, if you are an American, you haven't.  This sort of thing-- a terror attack that ended in one death of someone not even targeted-- maybe doesn't make the news, especially as everyone in the West is mad at Israel right now.

But now you know.

There have been planes humming through the night sky for the past few evenings, and with good reason.  Last night, I was in the biblical garden, reading my Bible, journaling, and praying.  Suddenly, something lit up the sky to the south.  It appeared to be a flare, falling in a set of flashes.  A second later, and a little more to the southeast, another fell.  They appeared as brilliant, soundless miniature fireworks.  My heart leapt into a pounding gallop, and I sat still, hands clenched at my sides, waiting.  But as I watched these twin flares, or missiles, or whatever they were, fall toward the ground, I knew one thing with certainty.

I am not afraid.

It sounds naive, foolish, silly, but the thought of a war does not frighten me as much as I imagined it would.  My heart is so tied to this land, after only a month and a half of living here.  Indeed, there is something even stranger that I'm feeling.

If war comes . . .
if this is "the end" (of time, of the world, however you read "the day of the LORD") . . .
there is no other place I would rather be.

In fact, I'm fairly certain being forced to leave Israel in the midst of war would break my heart directly in two . . .